


A Series of Johnfortunate Events

by xmoomzix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Lock, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sherlock tease, TJLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmoomzix/pseuds/xmoomzix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small ficlets about the relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, mostly of a sexual nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot Shower

Sherlocks’ back hits the hard, cold surface of the tiled wall, enticing a deep grunt to erupt from the back of his throat. When did John become so feral? His train of thought derails swiftly as the mans hips continue to rock and swivel into him, a hushed expletive leaving his lips instead. Pressing back, he pants into John’s ear, “I thought I was the impatient one.”

Meanwhile John’s lips continue their descent, open mouthed kisses and bites leaving a track of red marks down the others pale neck and on his throat. Sherlocks hands come up to grip Johns strong shoulders as he dares a glance down between their bodies. Sherlock feels like his lungs are being constricted, both their arousals press together, sliding against one another, slick from the shower and soap suds. His dusky eyes then travel back up Johns lean form, appreciating every dip, every curve and scar until they settle back on his warm eyes.

One of his hands drop from John’s shoulder, fingertips skimming down the damp heated skin of chest. His touch lingers there, feeling the thrum of an erratic heartbeat. Dipping his head, he presses a chaste kiss on John’s sternum, tasting the saltiness of his flesh amid the moisture. Drawing back, a hand snakes down between their abdomens, tentatively extending his fingers to grip the others length. John has been watching the other, his eyes utterly lecherous. He barely whispers, “You don’t know how much I want you right now.”


	2. Caught wet-handed

Sherlock has just emerged from the shower, the beads of water on his skin reflecting the light. He feels hot, mostly due to the unusual balmy night. It’s irritating but more than that, there’s a heat within him as well. It resides in the pit of his stomach, stirring and thrumming along with the beat of his heart.

He tries to ignore it but it is relentless, crawling over his skin like a terrible itch. An itch he must scratch before John returns.

Lowering himself to the floor, back resting against the cool bath panel, Sherlock closes his eyes and wills his mind to drift. A hand comes to rest on his stomach, fingers trailing south..

The first touch is static, a brush of the fingertips, causing his need to jump and flex towards his navel. He lets out a breath, moistened lips parting. Curling his fingers around the heated flesh, he pumps himself slowly, savouring the still new, sensation. Hips roll of the floor as he gets more into it, grunts escaping from his throat. His hand works methodically, sliding down and twisting on the way back up.

It feels good but it’s not enough.

He picks up the pace, eyes cracking open to watch himself and somehow, watching that flushed tip appear then disappear into his own hand evokes the most intense waves of pleasure. He is sweating now, curld plastered to his face, husky moans and expletives released in harmony with the slick noises caused by his hand.

His free hand travels up to flick over a nipple but then, his eyes fly open, suddenly hyper aware that he is not alone..

It’s the equivalent if having a bucket of ice thrown over him.

“John!"


	3. John's Private Impulses

John rouses from his sleep feeling very heated - at least more than normal. He can only blame those irritating dreams that like to make an appearance every now and again. John is beginning to think he is losing his mind.

He kicks off the covers to let the morning chill caress his skin and looks down at himself. 

That’s not going to go away any time soon..

With a sigh, he reaches down and curls his fingers around his erection, beginning to stroke himself hurriedly. The long, almost brutal strokes coax deep groans from his chest and with his eyes screwed shut, he lets his body take over. It is intense; the feeling of the air against his flushed skin, the linen that he clutches in his other fist. 

It’s been only a few minutes, but already John can feel himself reaching the crest, the wave of relief is about to break over him. His toes curl and heels dig into the mattress as his back arches. There is an overwhelming need to drive his cock deeper into his own fist and he does so almost painfully, crying out as he reaches his peak.

His eyes fly open as he body tenses then releases - hard.

John is slowly coming down from his high when he hears a small cough from the doorway. He stops breathing, knowing without looking who it is. 

The lead role in his little fantasy.

“Christ Sherlock! Fucking learn to knock.”


	4. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so here's a bit of fluff that I wrote at Christmas as part of a gift exchange.

By the days end, when the sun softens into the skyline, John retires his concerns and permits himself to fall into free-limbed serenity with the one who knows him best. They meet at the post office, a halfway point between the hospital and Baker St that has gone unspoken between the the pair.

John doesn’t bother changing, only shrugging on a warmer coat when they make a brief stop at home on Christmas Eve. On the way to the service, the small crowd gathers, radiating an emanation of good humor that nearly carries them to their destination. Shops have closed up early tonight, store owners locking up and inspecting the newly adorned fairy lights set up for the occasion. John brushes his hand along pale knuckles before lacing the fingers within his own.

He can see the stage well before he and Sherlock arrive, it’s frame reaching far skywards, wide and sturdy for the acts that are soon to follow. Musicians range from local to nationwide. They have all gathered here tonight to play a concert, of the traditional, classic and delightful assortment. John’s glad he’d decided to budget for this and surprisingly, his companion hadn’t declined his proposal to come. He surmises had it been a rock concert or popular music, the story may have been different.

He’s not suprised however, at how lovely it is to watch the lights reflect of those slated eyes at the end of the last performance, or how how sweaty and breathless they both seem to be from simply standing there, watching and listening. He supposes Christmas has a way of turning things unusually romantic - especially since Sherlock held a notable disinterest in the holiday.

As the fireworks crackle in the sky behind Sherlock, John boldly uses the crowd to his advantage and presses his lips to Sherlocks cheek, mouthing a quiet thank you when he pulls away. There may be a little gleam of suggestion in the doctors eyes as he beckons Sherlock to follow him home but he is more than content with the others reserved company, where intimacy is delicate and touches are fleeting and sweet.


	5. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this ficlet came about after a dream I had about the first johnlock kiss. It is a bit ansgty but hey-ho. I promise I'll bring back some smut next chapter, how about that? :D

John’s back living at 221b. It’s been a few weeks since the mess of Mary. He’s been putting on a brave, optimistic face for everyone but Sherlock can see right through it. Sherlock is worried. John often goes for really long walks, alone. Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to deal with this, he doesn’t want to press anything.

One night John arrives back from yet another walk and when Sherlock looks up from his laptop, the facade crumbles..

John Watson crumbles before his very eyes, his whole body sagging in defeat, the light absent from his eyes.

“I’m tired Sherlock, so tired..”

He makes his way to sofa, sits and buries his face in his hands. “I’m tired of keeping everything in. It’s exhausting, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t do this.”

Sherlock is by his side in seconds, a tentative hand to the shoulder. “Then don’t hold it in, let it go.”

Those words are all John needs, his body twisting to the side, weight falling into Sherlock as he quietly sobs. For the first time, when it came to situations like this, Sherlock knew exactly what to do. He holds John securely, stroking his back, his hair. No words are needed and eventually he manoeuvres onto his back, taking John with him until the man cries himself to sleep.

It is only then that Sherlock turns, pressing his lips to the side of John’s head. It’s not the most comfortable position - John is rather heavy but they stay that way until John stirs and awakens hours later.

The ex-army doctor looks all puffy-eyed and confused, wondering how on earth he wound up laying on top of Sherlock Holmes.

“Do you feel better now?” Of course Sherlock would assume that ‘letting it out’ meant John crying into his nightgown. John doesn’t know whether to find the misunderstanding aggravating or endearing.

“Mostly. There’s still one thing I need to do though.” Neither have made an attempt to move off the couch and John intends to keep it that way shifting himself up and planting a hand either side of Sherlocks head. “Like I said, I’m tired of hiding.” He murmurs, smiling as he watches the confusion melt from Sherlocks face, turning into timid understanding. Having waited long enough now (and before any potential protest) John dips his head and presses their lips together. It’s soft, tender .. experimental. It’s perfect and feeling Sherlock respond.. just wow. He pulls away, reluctantly, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the surge emotion that is welling up inside.

One happy tear does manage to escape, tracking down John’s cheek. Sherlock catches it with another kiss, a confirmation that actually, everything is going to be okay and neither have to hide ever again.


	6. Breakfast in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin. Breakfast. In bed. Naked. Naughtiness.

The morning's sunrise is a breathtaking display of radiant colours. Bright streaks of red, pink, and orange slowly overcome the dark blue and purple of the twilight sky. The sky resembles a prism; all the colours blending perfectly into each other. The sun itself just begins to peek out of the horizon, and its brilliant rays already shine brightly and begin to warm air, bathing the rooftops of London in a titian glow.

It is this light that filters through the windows of 221b, stirring Sherlock from his pleasant sleep. Rubbing his face into the pillow he had ended up sharing, he inhales, John's scent filling his nostrils. How nice, he thinks, to spend the night in a bed with a warm body and a beating heart next to him. Finally opening his eyes, his lazy gaze falls on his partner, who had at some point during the night, melded himself to Sherlock's side.

John's nose is pressed into his shoulder, soft snores stirring the small hairs on his neck. Their legs are once again tangled together, the others knee wedged between Sherlocks thighs. It is hot. Their flat is on the first level of the building so received the full brunt of the rising sun. Sherlock pulls the sheets back, allowing cooler air to hit his heated skin. Casting a glance at John's alarm clock, he decides to doze back off for a few minutes, content with lying with his sleeping lover for the time being.

John’s mind slowly shifts back into consciousness as heat prickling across his skin rouses him from sleep. His eyes peek open to take in his surroundings and all he can see is the milky skin Sherlock's neck. No wonder he had felt so hot. On top of the covers thrown over him, his nose had been so close to the other's form, he had been partially breathing in his own hot puffs of air. Tilting his face downward, his gaze slides to the lump of sheets piled on top of him with only a third on his partner. Incandescent rays bend and curl around the folds of white sheets and fall in stripes of his lover's exposed legs.

A slight shift in position and John realises they are, undoubtedly, a mess of limbs. His own hands are trapped and buzzing with lack of blood flow under his body and a leg is thrown haphazardly over Sherlock's right thigh, knee caught between both of them. Smiling at their newly established bedroom manners, John's arm snakes out from under him, reaching out to chuck the bulkiest quilt off of them and onto the floor. The hand returns to settle lightly on Sherlock’s pale chest, rubbing languid circles over the nearest pectoral. He surmises the other's already awake, as the rise and fall of his chest is slightly more shallow.

He'd fancy just staying in bed all day, hiding away from prying eyes and responsibilities that, much to his dismay, have already begun floating through his mind. Despite their already eventful week, they still are expected to show their faces at the yard. He has no doubt that everyone has been notified of the recent development in their relationship - not like it’s anyone’s business. Worrying about it now will do nothing, so with a small sigh, his attention is turned back on the body next to him. He presses a warm forehead to the other's shoulder before whispering, " Did you sleep well?" Eyes fall closed as he listens to the subsequent reply, palm continuing to smooth over his lover's heated chest.

Pulled from his light doze, Sherlock slowly turns his head to John, eyes still glazed with sleep falling on his partners face. "Hmm? Oh yeah, it was nice not having springs prodding my back." He mutters, voice still slightly groggy. Eyes travel lazily over his Johns form, the discarded quilt revealing the soft, dips and curves of John's body. He follows the crease of his v-cut that disappears under boxers, his boxers, deciding he may very well ask John to keep them. Eventually, he pulls his gaze away, flitting back up to a pair of blue eyes that never fail to capture his attention. His hand joins the one on his chest, threading their fingers together.

"I won't ask if you slept well, seeing as I woke up to you clinging on me." He adds, mirth dancing in his irises. "I'm surprised you didn't drool on me."

Twisting onto his side, their hands separating, Sherlock re-positions his on John's shoulder, pulling him in for a kiss. Their lips meet languidly, Sherlock's brushing the others with little pressure to begin with. This is, Sherlock realises, their first proper kiss in three days, four hours and twenty-two minutes. That thought evokes a more insistent parting of lips, tongue finally pressing against the seam of John's sweet lips, desperate for a taste. When granted, a soft noise is released from Sherlocks throat as their tongues meet, wrestling together hungrily before he pulls away.

Mouth curved into a crooked smile, "I just needed to.. you know." Back to stumbling on his words, Sherlock has a feeling John will know what he meant anyway.

The kiss that follows is slow paced in manner, drawing a liquid-like warmth that flows smoothly through Johns body. He lets the other's tongue slip between his lips immediately and his own readily curls around the wet appendage. Rough finger pads slide up Sherlock's trachea, feeling the low hum that vibrates across the cartilage. He's so vocal when they touch and John finds it lovely.

John smiles for him, smiles for the both of them and far they've actually managed to come. "In the morning you're a little drippy." He moves to lean over Sherlock and peer over the side to get a look at the time. Settling to rest his chin on the other's pale chest, he speaks again. " Well, whaddyou wanna do? We can just lay here some more or-"

He stills at the sudden tap from his door. “ Mrs Hudson," he sighs, slowly rising and aiming his begrudging gaze towards the door.

“Sherlock?"

"Yeah?” A clipped tone comes from the bed.

"I have your phone here for you, you have a message, I think it’s from that Inspector.."

Groaning, John then slides out of the bed, sparing Sherlock a long-suffering look before replying, “I’ll meet you at the door!" Running a hand through his bed hair, John pads over, cracking open the door and take the device. He wanders back and climbs back onto the bed. " Looks like we have your next case."

Sherlock groans and his features contort into something akin to a childish pout.

Snatching the offending phone from John’s hands, he skims over the message, knuckles growing whiter by the second. “Body found with questionable artwork, possible link to the Monet Marauders.. one suspect already in custody?!" Sherlock's voice lifts at the end of the last item on the list, eyes widening incredulously. “What do they need me for then." He huffs, tossing the phone aside.

Realising he's acting like a brat, his expression softens a little. "I'll look at it again later." He tells John, hands sliding up his arms. "To answer your question - I say we stay here for just a little longer and if I feel like it, I'll take you out for lunch." Shuffling himself upright he then pulls his partner onto his lap, hands resting on the swell of his bottom. "Oh, I forgot to say, you can keep these boxers." He hooks a thumb under the waistband, pulling it out before releasing it with a snap against John’s skin. "They look better on you anyway.” They really do, obviously far too small but he shan’t complain about that.

John can't help but to tip his head to the side, quirking the corner of his mouth upward. " Oh, I know. I fill 'em out a lot better than you. And-" the waistband slaps a red line into the skin of his hip again and his hands fly up to grip pale shoulders, fingers digging in a little harder than needed. " _As I was saying, you prick_ , there's so much fabric left billowing—where are you under there," he teases and a single hand dips down between them, sliding past the top of the boxers. Blue eyes flick up to the ceiling and his expression morphs into feigned contemplation. Fingers brush past coarse hair until- " _Oh! _Here we are." John's gaze drops down to fix a taunting look at Sherlock. " You had me worrying for a second…"__

__Sherlock rumbles low in his throat, eyes flashing. Pale hands find purchase on John's shoulders, nails digging in when contact is made. "Y-You didn't seem to be complaining the other night…" He says breathlessly, nosing a trail down John's chest, tongue flicking out and licking a line back up his sternum._ _

__Sherlock looks up from under his lashes, catching John's smirk. Shivers run up and down his spine, oh what gratifying effects that smirk supplies, if only John knew. Sherlock rests his head against the headboard, closing his eyes and letting the others hand do it's thing. It feels like sweet torture to the consulting detective and wonders if John is taking it slow on purpose, like he wants Sherlock to beg for more._ _

__Well he's is having none of that. He grasps the soft strands of John's hair in his fingers, tugging his head forward roughly and slamming their lips together. He lets his teeth graze over his bottom lip before biting down gently, following the nip with a sweep of his tongue. Sherlock draws a panting breath through flared nostrils, releasing John's hair so that his hand can snake down to the others crotch, kneading the growing hardness there through the thin material of his boxers._ _

__Sherlocks reaction leads John to play into the sensitivity, using it to manipulate Sherlock's reaction to every flick of the wrist, once his hand wraps around the heated shaft. When the other draws back, John watches him. His eyes travel up the smooth skin of his neck, where his adam's apple bobs and to high cheekbones that are stained red with a growing flush. Further south, John continues use his hand to draw something carnal out of the other, sliding it up the length, where his thumb presses into the already weeping slit and rubs circles into the silky head._ _

__He teases the other in languid strokes and light tugs, eventually drawing the erection out of the parted front of his dark boxers. His sight does drop then, sparing the stiffened member a heated glance and watching the trail of precum between the head and his own thumb as it pulls away briefly._ _

__John knows exactly what Sherlock is trying to do and aims to keep him from gaining control. Without preamble, he draws away completely, out of the other's arms and out of his lap. He perches on his knees at the edge of his bed, before he moves to grab Sherlocks legs, dragging him further down the mattress. He spares no time shutting out any protests, slapping hands away when they come for him. Instead, he pushes the other down flat on his back, demanding Sherlock 'lay there and don't touch me'. John mumbles something unintelligible before reaching up to slip Sherlocks boxers off, careful to lift the waist band over his erection and flinging the undergarment to the floor. As he's never done this prior, John stalls for a moment before fully leaning down, allowing the moistened head of the other's penis to slip past reddened lips._ _

__John's sudden aggressiveness coaxes a low groan from Sherlock, the rumbling sound refracting and vibrating in his chest. He can see John's dominative and assertive side to be one of his favourite things and - _Bloody Hell!_ There's now heat, wetness and suction and - _Christ that feels good…__ _

__"Ughnnngh…. John!" Sherlock moans. His mouth feels amazing. There's very little can do except thread his fingers through John's hair and hold onto dear life as his mouth engulfs him and leaves him with barely any dignity left. The onslaught of curses hissed through parted lips spurs John on, head dipping down further to take more of the other in, and he nearly gags himself in the process. Eyes watering, he reluctantly removes his mouth, free hand flying up to muffle the cough that tickles the back of his throat. Uncertain eyes flick to the other to see if he's noticed. To his relief, Sherlock seems too far gone to pick at him and, with a smirk, John returns to his ministrations._ _

__Sherlock is a mess in no time. John's sinful tongue is licking along the underside of his dick, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure on the sensitive vein that snakes from base to the tip and dipping inside the slit at the top. Somewhere between his tongue sweeping over the leaking tip and under the slight flair, John’s own hand smooths down and past the top of his boxers, tending to his own state of arousal. His own wrist works quickly, flicking and tugging to bring himself near the brink._ _

__Head thrown to the side and eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock releases a string of grunts and curses, toes curling into the mattress. The temptation to roll his hips up in Johns warm mouth is becoming difficult to ignore. It's all too much. He's close before he knows it - and so soon! "Mmmmm, John… I…" Sherlock begins, electric waves pulsing through his body and gathering in his loins. "I… ahh.. I'm going to…" Rosy lips part in a silent scream, eyes flying open as his whole body contorts and arches. All he can do is feel, he knows he has come… and hard, he doesn't know quite where or how much. A numbness then overtakes his limbs, spreading everywhere like smooth honey as he falls back to earth._ _

__John nearly misses the breathless warning from the other and he watches Sherlock through a molten gaze, refusing to miss any second of his nearing climax. Still, he doesn't remove his mouth, moving his lips in long drags along the sensitive flesh. In the moment that Sherlock's back had lifted from the mattress, ribs outlined through the pale skin of his torso, John braced himself. To keep from choking, he held his breath as heated liquid pulsed into his mouth, some escaping down the side of his chin. He had little time to mull over the taste and texture of it, as his own hand, mixed with the view of a newly sated Sherlock brings him over the edge, lurching forward as he rides out his own completion._ _

__It's probably a miracle he's still able to remain upright, witnessing the messy spectacle in front of him. John, ever staying true to himself, lets out a lazy chuckle, running the back of his hand across his face. "You look absolutely spent." He then drops to all fours, managing to drag himself to where Sherlocks head is thrown to the side and settles on his stomach. "Hey," a shaky finger pokes the other's shoulder, " I didn't kill you, did I?"_ _

__After what feels like hours of lying blissfully in state of pure satisfaction, Sherlock cracks open one eye in response to the poke on his shoulder. "Not quite." He murmurs, tone thick and sluggish. "I believe i have found a good use for your mouth… besides kissing." The subsequent snort from John is muffled, followed by a, " I won't even dignify that with a response.” Sherlock waits a few more minutes before opening his eyes completely, gaze sweeping over the naked form of his partner. It dawns on him that there is no evidence of his climax on the others face, which means… "Wait, did you swallow my… I tired to warn you.” Sherlock is immediately apologetic, not knowing if the action was intentional._ _

__"I did," John replies, unwavering gaze witnessing Sherlock become flushed once more._ _

__Sliding his hands up Johns thighs, Sherlock is preparing to reach out and return the favour until his fingertips encounter warm stickiness and the realisation that John had already come. Sitting up and pressing a chaste kiss to the others lips, Sherlock lingers, “Thank you."_ _

__“What on earth are you thanking me for? You don’t need to thank me for.. that.”_ _

__“Oh."_ _

__“Idiot."_ _

__“Shut up!"_ _

__“Make me."_ _


	7. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to take their relationship further and initiates a night of passion. Initially posted on my tumblr for smut Sunday.. it ended up being really long haha.

The pair had been out on a case which concluded with a grateful client offering them tea and cake as thanks. Sherlocks polite refusal was ignored by John of course and that had hindered their return to Baker Street by a good half hour. Then, just to add to that, a sudden downpour of torrential rain further set them back, Sherlock grumbling about how they should have taken a cab.

Finally home, Sherlock flops down on the couch, unmindful of his sodden clothing and groans. “What a day.”

Coming to loom over his partners lax form, John peers down. “You should change your clothes.” A finger points towards the man. “You’re soaking the couch with rain water.”

“……….”

Folding his arms, Johns next command is solid with the promise of repercussion if it isn’t carried out. “Get up.”

Sherlock narrows his dark eyes on the finger pointing his way before flicking their attention to Johns face. An eyebrow arches as his lips mould into smirk. “Someone’s being demanding” He remarks, sitting up from his slouching position and making a slow show of actually standing up.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he mimics his partners stance and the look he shares with the him is smouldering. “I am interested to know what you would have done had I stayed put and ignored you. Experience tells me that angry John leads to good things.” There is a teasing lilt to his voice as he speaks, a glimmer of mischief in his eye.

“You,” John begins, “have something coming to you, that’s for sure. Though, I can’t quite confirm it’s something you’ll agree with at the moment.” Pausing, John considers his proposal, deliberation evident in the way his eyes search Sherlocks. Regardless, John will proceed with his plan. He suspects he may have a higher chance of Sherlock agreeing further down the line .

A tongue sweep across Sherlocks lower lip involuntary, the corners of his mouth curving up into a smile that exposes a row white teeth. “I’ve got something coming to me?” He repeats, unable to hide the curiosity in his tone. He does wonder what John could possibly be hiding up his sleeve, particularly if it is something he may object to. Sherlock is never one to shy away from anything and intrigue alone is what spurs him to probe no further.

A single step forward brings them both only a breath apart, close enough so that John can see results of their soaked attire. Pale, raised goose-flesh has spread across the exposed areas of Sherlocks skin and John hasn’t a doubt the effects continue under the hem of the shirt’s neckline. He’d reach out and run his palm down a dampened arm, but he would rather continue things elsewhere. “This…let’s go up?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a suggestion, because it wasn’t and he doesn’t want Sherlock to think he has a choice in the matter. A tilt of the head towards the appropriate direction is followed by, “Come on,” and that’s all he offers before heading towards the stairs.

This is a sex thing, Sherlock decides. What area of ‘sex’ however, he doesn’t know. The usual signs are there, he can read John easily in that regard but tonight, there’s a notable shift in the mood. His partner seems almost.. anxious? Whatever it it is, Sherlock follows John up the stairs to their now shared bedroom and flicks the lamp on. Behind them, the muted luminosity of the bedside lamp casts their combined shadows along the bed, figures distorting over the raised curves of unmade sheets. John turns to him then, expelling a quiet, measured sigh before proceeding. He lessens the distance between them by drawing Sherlock forward by his wrists and bidding them to his sides by holding them in place. A chin tips upwards so that lips can sample an angled jaw and somewhere in the depths of John’s mind, his twelve-year-old self blanches at the height difference. For now though, he can care less.

Slowly, he follows the line until he finds Sherlock’s lips with his own, engaging in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. As much as Sherlock loves the raw passion that can sometimes erupt between them, he can really appreciate the sensuality of moments like these where their feelings for each other are unspoken but conveyed in ghosting touches and gestures. He accepts the lips that press against his own, leaning into the kiss and angling his head to press back gently. It is slow and tender, warm breath mingling as they melt into it. It is all over too soon, in Sherlock’s opinion as John pulls back with a small tug of the lip which coaxes out a breathy sigh. John’s next actions bring promise of more however and Sherlock backs himself up to the bed, lowering himself to lay on his back on top of the sheets.

“I want to take things further" John supplies, once Sherlock has lowered himself onto the mattress. He draws the other’s shirt up and over his head before joining him on the bed and rolling him onto his stomach. Careful not to put his full weight on Sherlock, he props himself up with an elbow, leaning down to move his lips across the ever-interesting planes of Sherlock’s back. He trails wet kisses down a right scapula, tongue flicking out to glide across the slight bumps of his spine, once he has reached that point. All the while, John’s right hand has been steadily working itself farther past the waistband of dark pants, fingers ghosting over the outer patch of coarse hairs. His touch there doesn’t linger, however, drawing back to firmly grip a hip bone. John plants his lips on anywhere he can reach, dragging them along a tricep one moment and latching onto the slightly roughened skin of an elbow the next. Moving back up, he presses his nose into dark locks, the scent of the rain water that weighs down Sherlock’s hair floods his nose. It is then he moves away entirely and slides the remaining articles of clothing off his partner. Undressing himself, he then settles back over Sherlock, but this time a lone hand delves between the other’s toned thighs. John touches between Sherlock’s thighs likes he’s never done so before. Finger pads traveling over the sensitive skin, as if mapping out the flesh, tracing the more pronounced veins of the shaft. Ignoring any and all protests regarding his own state of dress, he settles onto his side and pulls Sherlock into the same position, though the raven is facing away with his back pressed into John’s torso. He reaches back over the slight curve of a hip to continue his ministrations. “ Something tells me you haven’t quite comprehended what I’m saying to you,“ he observes, voice low and husky with disuse. When John touches Sherlock this time, he does so with slow, firm strokes. He’s got time, they both do. There’s no rush whatsoever. An arm slides across light fabric as he stretches his free hand upwards, fingers curling around the other’s forehead. He tips the skull back, so that his lips can better reach the shell of an ear. Pink and deft, his tongue flicks out against the curve while his hand continues to work Sherlock into a state of sex-induced compliance.

John presses himself into Sherlock, with hopes of relieving some of his own pressure and allowing the other to feel the hardened line of the his arousal. Sherlocks body is on fire and already a thin layer of sweat coats his bare skin. His partners touch is skilled and experienced so Sherlock appreciates how John has obviously taken note on what feels the best for him. He rocks his hips into the now slick hand and as John presses back into him, he becomes all too aware of the others own hardness. John pumps faster now, changing the angle according to what coaxes forth the loudest exclamations. He can tell there’s precum leaking from the tip now, as some of it has traveled over his fingers and onto the sheets. Higher up, his other fingers curl, gathering Sherlocks hair until there are dark wet strands jutting from between his knuckles. Once more, he leans forward and informs Sherlock of his plans from the start.

“I want to be inside you.”

John’s words stun Sherlock to stillness, mind processing the meaning behind them over and over. It’s not like he hadn’t considered it before, he had.. oh so many times but he can’t help but feel a little nervous about it. Yes, this had all been a definite sex thing.

“I mean, we don’t have to! If you’re not ready, if you don’t want to, I understand.” John stumbles over his words, wondering if he’d asked too much, taken things too far too soon. The downtrodden expression on the Johns face makes Sherlock feel awful and he can’t help but feel his apprehension has been misunderstood. Rolling to face John, he takes both his hands unmindful of mess still coating the others fingers. He needs to explain and he needs to be truthful.

“John, don’t look like that, I’m just - you surprised me. I trust you, with everything I have.. I’m just a bit nervous. What if I disappoint you and I’m terrible?” Red stains his cheeks for a moment, one hand releasing the others to rub at his head with an embarrassed chuckle. “I want this. I want you.” Sherlock has to wonder how he has managed to maintain his state of arousal during this awkward conversation but the embers are still there, smouldering gently. “Where were we?” He bites his lip, casting John a sheepish look.

“We were…” Blue eyes flick up to the dim ceiling before John rolls over, torso hanging off the bed as he reaches for his bedside drawer. Treating the other to an eyeful of his bare arse, John searches for the small bottle he had smuggled in a day ago. Item in hand, he turns back to Sherlock. “Umm,” he starts, tongue flicking out to taste the salt around his lips, “ I figured we should use this. I hear it makes things easier and all that…..” Especially if he makes a massive mistake, he adds silently. He hasn’t a clue what the best brands are for this sort of item, but he’d be damned if he were to ask anyone about it.

Sherlock smiles appreciatively when John reveals the small bottle of lotion. He knows what it is for and is thankful that he is so prepared. The nerves are still present, stirring in his stomach like little butterflies and with it the anticipation and excitement of what is to come. Such intimacy that he would only ever share with John, another step in their relationship. It’s almost impossible for him to comprehend how far they have come in such a short time since being reunited; but now that they’re here, he wouldn’t change it for the world. Biting his lip, Sherlock allows himself a few more moments to prepare himself mentally; something that he is sure he will look back on and cringe over. He shudders when a warm hand comes into contact with his bare hip and his gaze snaps to John’s face, their eyes meeting and locking. Seeing a little underlying anxiety in John’s eyes, Sherlock feels a little reassurance. This is something new for the both of them, he had almost forgotten that fact. With a smile offered to his partner, Sherlock nods and wordlessly, he pulls a pillow out from behind and positions it to elevate his hips when he lies back. His eyes remain trained on John’s as he lowers himself down and stretches languidly on the soft sheets. Abdominals contract as he sucks in a shaky breath, legs bending at the knee and parting slightly. Feeling completely and utterly exposed, Sherlock’s cheeks flood with warmth and his eyes roll back to look up at the ceiling as he feels John’s gaze on him.

Air fills his lungs as John draws a long breath inward. On the exhale, he nods back, eyes roving over the flesh displayed before him. Their pause in action has seemed to give way to hesitance, a stark contrast to the composure he had possessed only moments before. Carefully, he removes himself from the bed, feet lightly padding over towards the end, where he once again joins Sherlock, kneeling between his bent legs. It’s quite new to look at him from this point and, with a smile, he bids his worries away and hopes his confidence returns in due time. The bottle clutched in his hand and it’s purpose almost escape his mind as he runs another hand along a pale thigh, touch nearly reaching dark, coarse hair before withdrawing. The bottle cap slides along the grooves that keep it in place when John twists it open. The liquid in which it contains is clear and has no scent, immediately it adopts the temperature of his fingers as pours it onto them. Awkwardly recapping it, he then leans forward, propping his own weight up with his free hand. Looking down, his gaze is a searching one, making sure not to miss any hint of expression skittering across Sherlock’s face. A thumb slides down along the other’s perineum, halting further down.

For all of his thinking, John realises he hasn’t uttered a word and when he circles his thumb around Sherlocks entrance, he leans down, carefully, and brushes his lips along a tense jaw. Raising back up, he says, “If something doesn’t feel right, I want you to say something, okay?”

The anticipation is stifling. Sherlock’s throat bobs as he repeatedly swallows the build up of saliva in his mouth. Then he jerks violently. The first touch; almost feather-like, tracing the soft flesh beneath his balls and travelling south. Johns fingertips leave a pleasant static sensation in their wake. Sherlock desperately tries to even out his breathing, a difficult feat when his nerves are on edge and a thumb rests against his most intimate area. At first it’s just an experimental circling motion and Sherlock is surprised how sensitive he actually is down there. The only way he can describe it to himself is like a slow fizz of prickly sensations and any arousal he had lost during their lapse comes back in full force. He sucks in a mouthful of air. When John’s voice breaks the silence, Sherlock tips his head and gives him an intense look before nodding slowly. That is all the confirmation John apparently needed as suddenly, a slick finger is pressing against him. This is the part where he needs to relax, Sherlock knows this but it’s one thing knowing and another actually doing. Nothing had ever been.. down there and even with the copious amount of lube, the first breach is proving to be a little uncomfortable. The tight ring of muscles contract instinctively and Sherlock bites down on his lip.

In retrospect, John wishes he had done more research in the 'prep and landing’ department. He looks to Sherlock for further encouragement once he presses forward and sort of wishes he hadn’t. John realises it’s not the other’s intent, but the dark, knitted eyebrows and the teeth digging into a bottom lip resemble a face of pain. The process must be agonizingly slow for the other, which is why John proceeds to plant a few more light, reassuring kisses along the line of Sherlocks neck, trail leading further down to reach a collar bone before sitting back up. Sherlocks body instantly relaxes, allowing John’s finger to slide inside a little further. It’s not unpleasant, Sherlock decides, concentrating on remaining relaxed. It feels a little strange to have something moving inside him but he can slowly feel himself adjusting to the intrusion and after a few moments, he tentatively nods his consent for the addition of another finger.

John doesn’t do this until he’s slid his knuckle-deep finger out and pushed back in a few times. Once he manages to get over how awkward their situation has become, John actually takes the time to gauge how relaxed the other is. Sherlock doesn’t know when the discomfort melted away. It wasn’t an instant switch but more like a slow ebb and soon his eyes are fluttered closed and his lips are are parted to release panting breaths and small murmurs of approval. John mutters an, 'okay’, and proceeds to push in another finger.

The addition of another digit, provides a small sting of pain that is forgotten in an instant as Sherlocks insides clench and pull to draw the intruders further in. They are twisting and curling within him and it’s the weirdest thing but.. “Oh!” Eyes fly open as they brush against something that causes his hips to roll upwards ever so slightly and sends a small shock to his spine.

This time, the process moves a little faster and John’s gaze switches between Sherlock and the task at hand before his next glance downward begins to linger. He watches as his fingers disappear into Sherlock and the sight is enough to make his grip on the underside of the other’s thigh tighten. It’s not long before his concentration begins to falter. Moments pass by and John pushes Sherlock’s thigh up until it meets a hardened abdomen, so that the other is shamelessly displayed before the doctor. The pace quickens and John realises it’s not Sherlock’s breathing he hears, it’s his own harsh, uneven breaths escaping from parted lips. Just the thought of pushing his straining erection into Sherlock has his heart thudding so loud he surmises even his partner can hear.

Drawing out, John tries to steady his breathing, concentrating on not dropping the bottle his still lubed fingers reach for. The cap is loose like he had left it and when he pours it’s contents into his hand, immediately he moves grip his own cock that bobs heavily between his thighs which each movement. He’s hasty with spreading the lube, fist quickly sliding from the flushed head and down to the base only a few times. For good measure, he gives Sherlock’s own erection a decent squeeze, lips curling as he watches the other’s face morph accordingly. Eventually, he moves to loom over the other, left hand splayed and pressing into the mattress near the end of Sherlock’s dark strands of hair.

“Okay,” he says again, as if it was the only word he knew. Hell, it may as well be, he doubts he could manage anything further at this point. Carefully, he guides himself forward, white enamel nearly piercing the flesh of his bottom lip in an effort to restrain himself. For all of his earlier efforts, Sherlock is still very tight, and when John begins to breach the other, the grip has him gasping out his name.

The first part of the breach is rather smooth, a little uncomfortable but bearable. Sherlock concentrates on relaxing as he did preciously, slow controlled breaths rolling between parted lips. A little further and it starts to feel a little uncomfortable, the thickness of John’s girth stretching him more than what his fingers had. The breathy rasp of his name coaxes a hitch in his breathing and suddenly he feels very full. It’s a strange feeling and Sherlock has to fight the natural urge to push back.

A sweat breaks out on his forehead when John begins to move. The first few strokes are a little awkward, Sherlock shifting underneath to accommodate the experimental thrusts. Then suddenly everything changes. John’s movements become more controlled and languid and like warm honey; a pleasant wave of pleasure rolls through Sherlock, making his stomach flutter and his toes curl. Fingers reach up and tangle into John’s hair as a low mewl escapes his throat. Sherlock takes a moment to observe the visible tremors that take over his lover with every thrust and gentle tug of the hair. There is something incredibly arousing about having John hovering over him, eyes darkened and glazed with lust, he finds. There is little more time for rational thought as a well aimed placement of hips pushes against that small bundle of nerves inside Sherlock that has his spine arching beautifully off the mattress and his head tossed to the side as he finds himself moaning and sighing loudly. Each time he is filled, the friction is so painfully perfect it is borderline electrifying, drawing out ragged breaths while various muscles twitch, clench and jump in his high state of arousal.

“Mmn, god John…”

John realises there are three expressions Sherlock makes that he’ll never grow tired of.

The first is when the other smiles at him when he’s sitting near the living room window and sunlight hits his eyes just right, illuminating those irises so that he’s able to differentiate between them and his pupils. The second proves to be rarity that only happens when John’s done or uttered something incredibly stupid that makes dark brows draw together and finely shaped lips pull upward as an appalled sort of laughter he can’t quite contain spills out. Lastly, there is the expression he makes now, as John pushes deep into him in one languid roll of hips downward, grinding the other into their mattress. Slack-jawed and cheeks stained with the faintest shade of red, Sherlock is an alluring sight, and as John leans down to slide his tongue into the other’s open mouth, he pumps his hips forward once more, feeling Sherlock draw another breath inward.

He seals his lips over Sherlocks’s when he chooses to quicken his pace and perhaps it’s the sounds he elicits from the other or the knot coiling tighter within him that spurs him onward. He’d meant to let the experience remain slow, but as sweat and arousal builds between them, his intentions prove difficult to maintain. “I just,” he chokes out as a hand closes in a fist in Sherlock’s hair, “ I want to do this from every angle and—-fuck!” He knows coherence is not easily obtained in these moments, but his small attempt at discussion proves useless and John decides it’s better to use action rather than words. He pulls out completely and slides his body over to Sherlocks side, pushing a a pale shoulder until there’s room for him to press close into his back. Awkwardly, he loops Sherlock’s thigh around his own hip and presses the flushed head of his cock back into the heat the clenches around him brings forth harsh words his hands could never elicit. Harder this time, John snaps his hips forward and upward, seeking an angle that find the same spot as before. His palm slides over a slight swell of the other’s hip, fingers moving in short, wiry hair until they wrap around the base of Sherlock’s neglected arousal.

Sherlock begins to lose himself again, John’s words exuding dominance in this situation, fusing with his cries of ecstasy as each thrust propels him further into oblivion. How can he form words when the solid body behind him is arching beautifully into him, legs tightly entangled around his hips as grunts are releases against his neck? He desperately presses back, until the two are flush together, head resting the crook of the his lovers shoulder. Their frantic rutting, the delicious rub of sweat-slick bodies, combined with the hand around his weeping cock is almost too much to bear and a Sherlock can feel himself becoming light-headed.

“Please…” He gasps. “Just- nngh! Keep doing that!” He finally manages to gasp, crying out a moment later at a particularly forceful thrust of that perfect, velvet length.

John continues to breathe laboriously into Sherlocks skin, lips pressing hard along the arch of his shoulder. Erratically, the hand gripping the other’s erection pumps continuously, every so often moving in tandem with hips the grind forward. His own legs feel heavy when he tries to move moments later, having saw it fit to switch positions once more. Briefly, he wonders if he’s become too rough, too forceful with someone who had never done this. But, as Sherlock is pushing Sherlock onto his stomach and sliding his palms around sweaty hips to pull them upward, he surmises if the other’s uncomfortable, he’ll have no problem with voicing that much. John asks once again when he’s driving the flushed head of his cock into Sherlock if 'this is okay’ and 'are you alright’ and after that, inquires no more. The back of his thighs begin to burn from their frantic use and John can only manage to slump over the arch of Sherlock’s heaving back as he continues winding the cord tighter within him, within them both. His nails sink into pale skin, drawing reddened half-moons into the flesh. It’s not long before he’s reduced to sobbing breathless curse words and thrusting unevenly.

Sherlock would later blush at being in such a pose but for now, an unintentional whine shudders through him as John snaps his hips back and forth at a frantic pace. Sherlock can feel every stroke of that thick length within him, every nudge and flex.. it’s torturous yet so intoxicatingly good. “Nngh! Jo..John..“ He moans, the others hand once again fisting his cock and pumping it vigorously. Burying his face into his pillow, Sherlock takes a few more thrusts before the heat pooling between his legs ignites, bubbling over and tossing him into a state of pure rapture. Yelling into the pillow and almost smothering his face, he comes hard, thick milky ropes staining the bedsheets.

John isn’t far behind. Sherlocks climax had formed an vice-grip on his cock and the vocals push him over. It’s with a final jut of hips forward that he nearly yells the other’s name, eyes squeezing shut to weather the final wave and buries himself deep in Sherlock as he releases hard.

Sherlock is vaguely aware of John reaching his peak, and feeling the other come inside him is definitely another weird-but-pleasant experience. For what feels like an age, Sherlock lies bonelessly on his stomach, John on top until his softened cock slips out with a wet sound and he rolls onto his back. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch. He’s in state of exhaustion and he barely had to do anything. As his breathing slows and his heart rate returns to normal, Sherlock becomes acutely aware that he is ‘leaking’ from behind. An experimental shift of the hips confirms that the sticky mess is also coating his things and no doubt the bedspread.

“I don’t think we should let Mrs Hudson wash these sheets.”

Snort.

“Definitely not.“


	8. Tensions Mount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a situation where Sherlock's attempt to flee for John's protection is thwarted. John needs to convince Sherlock that none of the danger matters and opens the floodgates.
> 
> Sexual Content ahead.

John felt like he had been punched. Hard.

Never had he heard Sherlock talk so much in his life and he would have found it amusing had the situation been different. As it turned out, Sherlock had a lot to get off his chest and John briefly wondered if the man felt any relief at all - ironic considering what he intended to do.

John was at a loss of what to say. A part of him wanted to grab hold of Sherlock by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, but a bigger part wanted to take him in his arms, reassure him, plea with him. It's not right. None of this right. Sherlock shouldn't have to take the burden all by himself. He shouldn't have to bear that cross. There had to be other ways.  
John was kicking himself also. In his naivety he thought his pledge of friendship alone would solve everything. Sherlock needed more than that. He needed someone to understand him and listen to him, really listen. Was it too late to start listening now?

A sad smile graces his lips. "Ah so you've figured it out. You've finally realised that I have feelings for you and because of that, you need to get rid of me."

His response is silence, with only the breeze stirring the back of his hair. He dropped his gaze to the dogtags hanging round his neck, cradling it to his chest and let a long breath whistle through his teeth. How can I make you see..?

John raised his gaze and collided with a pair of sharp eyes and despite their appearance, they were the same eyes that haunted him every night - sometimes flared and bright with excitement, sometimes dull and devoid of emotion in the depths of boredom and other times.. misted with love and desire.

_**Thump.** _

Gaze unwavering, John moved silently, taking a small step closer to Sherlock. The detectives eyes flickered with something John could only describe as fear and his back straightened, chest puffed out.

"I'm an idiot," John mumbled, looking up to the skies for some kind of contradiction. The skies were dark and ominous and he could taste the rain in the air and yet, peaking between a tiny crack in the clouds is a tiny ray of light and suddenly it all becomes crystal clear. With a self-depreciating huff, he yanked the tags from his neck and cradled them in his hands, watching Sherlock and the tension radiating off his body. He tossed the necklace over and Sherlock deftly caught it. John continued to watch as the others eyes narrowed, a crease forming between his brows as he looked at the item in his hand.

"You're my best friend Sherlock…"

A pause. That doesn't sound right.

"..and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things but if you think I'm going to let you destroy yourself like this.. It's not going to happen. I won't let it happen…

_...you mean too much._ "

"You're right, you are an idiot."

John shook his head, "I'm not doing this to be a martyr, or to make myself feel better. I want to save you!"

"You're wasting your time!" Angry now, Sherlock takes two steps towards John, nostrils flaring.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL STANDING HERE? WHY ARE WE STILL ARGUING?!"

Two more strides, the distance closed rapidly.

"What do you want from me, John?"

John's chest rose and fell with quick shallow breaths and his skin glistened, burnished gold like a late morning sun. The gap closed with only inches separating their bodies. Neither made a move even thought the tension sizzling between them was heavy. John took a shuddering breath before speaking. "I want.."

"What?"

John mumbled, his words lost on the growing breeze.

"I just want you." John raised his gaze, locking on Sherlock's. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, voice low, strong and sure. "I want you Sherlock. All of you. Your past, your flaws, your scars. I want you body and soul. I want you to live so I can breathe you in. I want your happiness so I wake to see you smile. I want you to stop running from me." His voice cracked then.

"Y-You’re.. you idiot. Moron. What-" Sherlock's voice was thick with a foreign emotion and a stinging behind his eyes alerted him to tears he desperately did not want to fall. "Damn you John! I wanted distance! I didn’t want to have to see you in hospital again, hooked up to machines because of me. I didn’t want to risk watching you die!"

Sherlock didn't know who reached for whom, he only knew that John's strong arms were wrapped tight around his waist and his arms somehow found themselves around John. Their bodies clapped together with enough force to to push the air from their lungs, and just before their lips met, Sherlock froze.

Breaths rapid and harsh mingled in the sliver of air that separated them from complete contact. The scent of John gusted over his cheeks and awakened his senses. The heated press of the other's chest against his, seared through his skin and ignited a fire within. Electric tingles raced the length of Sherlock's tall frame and blood began it's instinctive descent south.

Sherlock moved a hand to cradle the back of John's head, tunneled his fingers in the short strands damp with sweat and tentatively pressed their lips together.

He waited for John to respond and barely a heartbeat later, John craned up into the kiss.

John's lips were chapped as they dragged against his own but Sherlock paid no mind and allowed himself to have a good taste. It was a little awkward, he wasn't sure if he was angling his head right or pressing too hard but he wasn't receiving any complaints either. When John's lips parted, he swept his tongue inside and slid it against John's. He revelled in the subtle, rough texture on the surface and the smooth underside as they twined around one another. Sherlock noted the tang of copper he could taste.

A ragged moan rose up between them.

Sherlock wasn't sure which one of them it emanated from, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that John was in his arms - that warm, solid body pressed to his; every curve, ridge and dip fit into place as though it were only made for him.

John's hands slipped under his shirt and burned a path up and down the expanse of his back, from the base of his neck to the swell of his arse. Scissoring hands in either direction, Sherlock held the back of John's head, slanting their heads to deepen the kiss that had yet to break - breathing be damned - and then dropped one hand to cup a clothed bottom, squeezing hard as he rocked his hips forward.

The rigid unyielding length of John's own erection rode against Sherlock's and a gutteral growl that seemed to come from the very ground beneath them, vibrated against Sherlock's skin as it surged up through John's chest.

Then John forced his hands between them. The heel of one hand traced the outline of Sherlock's arousal through a layer of fabric, while the other one frantically worked at working the button loose. Sherlock rolled his pelvis back only far enough to give John the room he needed to complete the task. He wanted the last of that material gone. He wanted John to take him in his hand and wrench every day of the last few years longing from his body.

John tucked his hands beneath the waistband of his underwear and pushed those and his pants down together. Sherlock's arousal bobbed free -proud, flushed and bending slightly toward his navel. The rough heat of John's hand wrapped around his shaft and Sherlock jerked forward, groaning into John's mouth.

Sherlock broke the kiss for the first time and between gasping pants, "Bastard!" He clamped his hand around John's wrist, hooked a heel behind his knee and with a swift manoeuvre, tackled the doctor to the ground before he could react.

John's broader frame hit the dirt with a startled grunt as Sherlock landed on top of him, still tightly gripping his wrist. Sherlock pushed John's legs apart with his knees and settled into the welcoming space between them. John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes darkened and half-lidded, his breath coming in shallow puffs and his heart pounding powerfully against Sherlock's chest.

"I've wanted this so long." John whispered as his hands clenched into fists against the others unyielding grip. "Kiss me."

And Sherlock did. This time it wasn't a gentle exploration. This was a frantic, mindless, desperate claiming. This was the release of too many years denying himself, too many years of running away from what he craved the most. Sherlock devoured John's mouth, sucked and swirled the length of his tongue; scraped and ground their teeth together. Lips swollen and sensitive, pulsed with the rapid drum-beat of his heart. Sherlock felt like he was trying to climb inside John and it still wasn't close enough.

He rocked his hips into John who bucked to meet each thrust in equal measure .John tried again to free his hands from Sherlock's hold but the detective kept him pinned tight to the ground while he had his way with those sinful lips. Too long he'd wanted. Too long he'd needed. Now that he had Sherlock right where he wanted him, there was no way he was letting him go but that didn't mean he was going to just lay there either.

With a growl, John bit down on Sherlock's lip. He could taste blood and it had the desired affect of Sherlock rearing back and glaring down at him with those fathomless eyes. John took the opportunity to flip their positions and before Sherlock could protest, John pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Please."

With hands firmly holding Sherlock's pale hips, John kissed him one more time on the lips before his tongue led his mouth on journey from the slant of Sherlock's jaw, down the side of his neck where he nipped the thick corded muscle teasingly with his teeth. He followed the line of Sherlock's clavicle into the hollow of his throat, then down the centre of his chest and over to a pebbled nipple. He teased it with tongue and teeth, Sherlock's head tipping back with closed eyes as he shuddered under John's devoted worship.

John continued his southbound journey until his chin bumped the head of Sherlock's straining arousal and a spike of pure electricity charged though Sherlock's every vein. "Aah.. John.."

Sherlock caught his breath when John's skilled tongue, hot and wet, twirled around the now leaking head, then down the underside to the base before returning to the tip. It was then he was engulfed in the most incredible heat he'd ever felt. All he's known to this point was his own hand. He didn't realise it back then but the only living soul he wanted to touch him like this was John. Selfishly, he hopes the same now can be said for he too.

John wasn't sure if what he was doing was right and just let Sherlock's reactions guide him. At one point he took the length of him too far and the thick head nudged the back of his throat, causing him to pull off and cough.

"Greedy."

John smiled at the smirk he'd missed so much and wiped away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He released Sherlock's hips and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock before taking him back into his mouth. He pumps in tandem with each bob of the head, hollowing his cheeks towards the bottom and twisting his hand on the way back up.

Sherlock released a deep groan that reverberated in his chest. The tight coil of heat in his stomach beginning to unravel already. He grabbed John by his hair in a effort to pull him off but John was having none of that. The crawling tingles exploded into blinding bolts of lightning, shocking Sherlock with it's force and throwing him into the eye of the storm. He gasped John's name as his body ripped apart and scattered through the stratosphere.

John didn't let go, didn't let him lose himself in that moment of pure, mindless bliss. He stayed with him, strong and protective - carrying him back to earth - spent, sated and speechless.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rested his head on Sherlock's stomach. The detective had yet to detangle his fingers from John’s hair, not yet able to command any part of his body to move.

"You better put your pants back on before someone comes.."

Sherlock sucked in a breath, "But I didn't.. what about you?"

John looked puzzled a moment and then his cheeks reddened as realisation dawns.

"Don't worry about me." He chuckled nervously, far to mortified to share that he had actually released into his pants just from doing the act alone. "I mean.. we have all the time in the world .. if you want it."

Sherlock throws an arm other his face and for the next few minutes there is silence and John wonders with dread, if he had got his hopes up.

"I should hate you. You screwed things up. You waltzed into my life and invaded my mind at the most inappropriate of times."

**_Thump._ **

"I won't leave.. we need to talk. Properly. With pants on. I still think I’m putting you in unnecessary danger."

John was too stunned to speak but instead delivers a rather sloppy kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "I don't know what to say."

"Good, shut up and get off so I can put my pants on…"


	9. Lovedrunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair are drunk, Sherlock wants to dance, John gets jealous, whirlwind sex ensues

They are drunk again.  
John suspects that the detective was trying to prove some kind of point and had grossly miscalculated their alcohol intake. They’re not completely wankered - well not yet at least. Sherlock is a little wobbly on his feet, refusing to sit down in favour of standing with his hands on hips whilst John is just glad he has a table to support his arms on. 

“We should dance, John.”

John looks up, wearily blinking with the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Shpice Girls? No ta.” 

“Oh come onnn. Why not?” John can’t be certain but that definitely sounded like a whine and he half expects to see a petulant pout on the detectives lips. He laughs.

“No, Sherlock. I’m not dancing. Not here.” God he hopes he doesn’t resort to begging. It looks like Sherlock’s considering just that but to John’s surprise, he just nods.

“Fine. You stay here and I’ll dance.” 

It’s not said with any venom so John let’s him go with the reassurance that Sherlock’s not mad at him and takes another swig of his drink.

Positioning himself so that John would get a full view but not so that he was sticking out, Sherlock starts to dance. It’s awkward to begin with, he never danced anything other than ballroom or ballet but he takes note of the people around him and closes his eyes to concentrate on the beat of the music around him. His slow robotic movements suddenly become more natural. He sways his hips and raises both arms above his head, throwing his head from side to side as the beat takes over.

John swirls the dark alcoholic liquid around in the bottom of his glass before tipping it into his mouth. Smacking his lips his eyes flick towards the crowd of dancers, zeroing in on Sherlock His eyes narrow as he watches the detective manoeuvre his body in a seductive fashion, dipping down to the floor and springing back up gracefully.

The heat is beginning to get to Sherlock and he quickly realised that his tight clothes are not made for dancing. He plucks a few buttons of his shirt open to to let in some air, revealing a v-shape of pale flesh, glistening with a light layer of sweat. His movements become more erotic, rolling his hips and running his hands down the denim of his jean. He slowly rotates down to the floor and then back up again, forgetting where he is.   
Across the room John’s knuckles are white from the death grip he has on his glass as he watches Sherlock’s display on the dance floor. He looks edible. John just wants to go over and drag Sherlock away and take him to bed. He has more control than that though… Too bad his dick doesn’t agree though, swelling and thickening in his pants. He bites his lip hard and subtlety adjusts himself.

Happy that he had John’s attention, Sherlock grins. It has barely been five minutes and he can see John is affected. He can also sense numerous other eyes on him but is beyond caring and even returns a few lustful stares for effect. Jealous John is always sexy. 

John is not happy. He didn’t know Sherlock would dance like that and he doesn’t like how the other men on the dancefloor are eyeing him. His eyes lock with Sherlock’s and he see’s the playfulness in them and the smirk to match. 

You cock.

Sherlock’s gaze turns heated as he lifts a finger and gestures with it in a ‘come hither’ motion. John snaps, slamming down the glass in his hand and marches his way over to the smug detective. Without a word he grabs his arm, pulling a delighted Sherlock out of the room, out of the club, not stopping until they reach the flat.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, John pins Sherlock to the stairs with his knees on each shoulder, crotch pressed into his face. Sherlock wastes no time in nuzzling his nose into the hardened mound in his John’s trousers, earning a low growl. John pushes forward, momentarily cutting off the air supply and long fingers dig into his thighs. Chuckling, he removes himself; crawling backwards so that his face hovers over the Sherlock’s flushed one.

“What was that all about?” John’s voice is husky and sends shivers up Sherlock’s spine. John bends his head down and begins to roughly kiss his neck and Sherlock’s eyes drift closed; shuddering in pleasure and anticipation. John’s mouth works wonders on his neck, nipping and sucking on the pale flesh until it discolours. To his silent dismay, John then pulls away but Sherlock’s eyes remain shut, waiting for his next move. John has complete control. There is little Sherlock can do to change that fact; there is nothing he wants to do to change it. 

Sherlock finds his buttons being hastily pulled opened and his shirt pushed off his shoulders. John is quick to deliver a playful bite to the exposed skin which he then soothes with a swipe of his tongue. Sherlock hisses at the slight sting but then groans as John proceeds to nip at his collarbone, leaving a trail of little red marks in his wake. 

Sherlock’s erection is painfully pressing against his jeans by now and he attempts to relieve some of the pressure by rolling his hips up to meet John’s, only to be firmly held back down. He grunts his protest but then arches his back as a tongue flicks across one of his nipples, swirling around the pink nub before being sucked into a hot mouth.“Nngh!” The other nipple is given the same treatment before Sherlock finds his jeans being yanked down his legs. 

John is pleased to see that Sherlock has neglected to wear underwear, his slender cock stretching upwards, bending towards his navel, angry, red and begging for attention. He gazes at his beautiful detective, sprawled against the stairs; his skin has adopted a lovely pink hue and a light sheen of glistening sweat. His abused lips are parted as he gasps in shaky breaths and his eyes fall half-closed, darkened with desire. John places his hands on Sherlock’s knees and nudges his legs apart, groaning at the sight before him. He starts to lick at the milky thighs, adding little bites here and there; purposely ignoring the twitching, leaking cock just inches away.

“John! Don’t tease me!” Sherlock is incredibly aroused and needs release. Johns response is another little bite to the inside of his thigh.

“John- ahh!” Suddenly, Sherlock’s cock is surrounded by moist heat and he looks down to see John peering back at him under his lashes, a mischievous glint in his eye as his lips stretch around him. “Ohhh!" John is using his tongue to massage the head as he slips the flesh past his lips and deep into his throat, swallowing and hollowing his cheeks. 

Sherlock is in heaven, the sensations are overwhelming and he could feel himself nearing release. His pants become more ragged and expletives tumble out of his lips more frequently. Just as he feel the tightening in his stomach, John pulls off, grabbing the base of his cock firmly, causing Sherlock to mewl at the loss.

"Not yet!” John says and then starts to hastily remove his own clothes. Then pulling Sherlock up to his feet he spins him around, and the detective finds himself yet again pressed against the stairs though this time his cock painfully jabs into one of the steps.

The next thing he feels is too warm hands, spreading his arse cheeks and exposing him. Then he melts. John tongue is on him, swiping and flicking over the tight knot at the entrance of his body. Swirling and dipping, he draws his tongue into a point and prods his way inside, effectively fucking Sherlock with his mouth. Sherlock can’t help but push back, seeking more, groaning and keening. Then John pulls away, a string of saliva still connecting them.

There’s the unmistakable sound of a cap popping open and Sherlock has to praise John’s foresight. Slick fingers push into him, curling and twisting, making scissoring motions to open him up. John is thorough, even with alcohol in his system and for this, Sherlock if grateful - even if he just wants to get just as thoroughly shagged already.

As if his thoughts were read, the fingers are gone and Sherlock whimpers when he feels the velvet head of John’s thick cock press against his entrance, then pushing past the ring of muscle. With one heavy thrust, he is completely filled.

John moans. Sherlock feel gorgeous around his cock. Hot, constricting and velvet-like. His fingers grasp Sherlock’s hips and he pulls out slightly before rocking forward firmly.

“Oh fuck!”

John is quick to pick up a rhythm, sliding in and out of Sherlock’s heat at an amazing pace, his nails digging into the pale hips, marring the flesh. Their skin slaps and glides together, sweat beading on their bodies and soaking their hair. Sherlock’s cries become louder and John relishes them, murmuring words of encouragement as he reaches underneath to tug on his cock.

It only takes a few strokes and Sherlock comes in a silent gasp, white exploding behind his eyes as his body convulses. The spasms are what pulls John over, Sherlock’s insides pulsing around him and sucking him in as he unloads.

They do eventually make it to bed, after collapsing uncomfortably on the stairs and catching their breath. There’s a half-assed attempt at cleaning up but ultimately, the pair are still buzzing and shagged-out. 

They’ll worry about poor Mrs Hudson in the morning.


End file.
